A Transcendental Affair
by BlackWreath
Summary: This is a famous ghost story, Rouge (1987), in which two of Hong Kong's greatest film stars, Leslie Cheung and Anita Mui star in. This story is an alternate take of the otherwise tragic ending. Here is my story, the final curtain call to one of my favourite movies of all time.


This is a famous ghost story, Rouge (1987), in which two of Hong Kong's greatest film stars, Leslie Cheung and Anita Mui star in. In the movie, they are never reunited. But in my alternate take of the otherwise tragic ending, they are finally reunited under the most idealistic and strange circumstances possible to imagine at 3 am in the morning. Here is my story, the final curtain call to one of my favourite movies of all time.

* * *

"No…" the she-ghost whispered tragically.

Mr Yuen and Ms Chu ignored her as they urgently focused on an old man's hasty refusal to answer: three resolute, tobacco-stained coughs.

The old men in the forgotten alley - the extra actors who lived by every penny and wished for gold - were an abject lot. They squatted in the dirt and stirred the uneven stones with their large knuckles, rolling cigarettes with filthy, yellowed newspapers. They stared gloomily into fires, ugly black splotches adorning their ancient skins.

Yuen and Chu stared around in positive misery. They were as much daunted by the impossibility of the task ahead of them, as they were by the dank, smelly surroundings. How could there be so many poor old people rocking about in the dirt, reminiscing old songs that ended in wails of spit and fits of nostalgia, but otherwise sat, unmoving and despondent, upon the sooty granite? What if Chen Pang really was here, among such depravity? An opera actor in gold and red ornaments, a trailing, rich black beard, reduced to a poor old man grovelling and begging, with arms that fingered wistfully at a past of luxurious romance. Not even Chu could bring herself to feel disapproving of this version of events.

"Chan Chen Pang? Where is he?" Yuen, her partner, tried again, facing the old men.

"Don't know," came the same old surly reply.

"Twelfth Young Master, you say?"

The couple turned around.

"Yes, please," Chu enquired breathlessly, a leap of gladness in her sodden heart. "Do you know Chan Chen Pang?"

The old man, with a dirty green cap and a trail of beads around his neck, shook his head, as if swatting off a fly exhaustedly.

"I am an old man, and you probably won't believe me-"

"Oh, cut the crap, Yen Shi, there are no fairytales -" interjected a chorus from the suddenly impassioned circle of old men.

"Oh! But there is!" proclaimed Yen Shi crossly, twirling his green cap in his fingers. "There are ghosts in this area. I hear the name 'Twelfth Young Master' being sung over and over again, as well as a fair bit thrown in about a girl named 'Fleur'. I once saw a small ghostly cat emerge from that alleyway of the abandoned house behind-"

"Cut the crap!"

"I thought you were more reasonable!"

"You won't find any ghosts here, young man and lady," concluded another - what else - old man perched upon a sawn log, its sawdust still fresh and powdery.

"Oh, I see," Ms Chu responded, biting her lip.

"You will, young man and lady. I assume that this beautiful lady is searching for her ancestors?" a twinkle was seen in the old man's eyes, gleaming like an absurd wish in the dark. It was an honest question, not one of mockery.

Fleur nodded, dipping her head like a swan on its last few breaths. Time was marching fast for her now, and on her peachy skin a pallid sheen had appeared, casting a dull colour on her formerly rosy cheeks. Her eyes appeared lidded with a great weight, as if it took immeasurable effort to keep them gazing straight ahead.

Chu stared at her anxiously.

"Scurry along, then. The voices are usually heard at this time. Go towards the abandoned house at the back," the old man instructed with an air of imperiousness.

They turned to go, thanking him effusively. The other old men stared at them grouchily, shivering in the cold air.

"And don't listen to the rest. They don't have proper hopes or dreams. I alone got to play the leading act thirty years ago when I prayed to those ghosts. Give them some food or incense."

* * *

They did scurry along. Yuen's heart was thumping in his chest, generating a warmth that was quickly stolen away by the biting wind. Ahead of him, Fleur was slowing down, her handkerchief fluttering, as if her wits seemed to disperse about her like the grey mist from one's breath.

"I...I feel him here," came those elusive words from her lips, which, even dulled with the application of modern lipstick, shone with sudden hope. Olden rouge was darker, and stained the lips more.

"You do?" asked Chu, coming beside her. Bits of hair from her short fringe had forayed onto her forehead, and was plastered down with a bit of sweat. Yuen stood beside Chu, a congratulatory smile forming on his lips.

Out of the blue, a draught of cold wind battered them all, causing every leaf to turn upon its belly, scraping the streets in a jittery fit. They listened to the scattering sound in horrified silence, as if the claws of a hundred invisible fingers drew graffiti noisily upon the cobblestones. The modern couple each cast a look up at the sky, marveling at its dark, enraged pallor.

"Oh," Fleur muttered, staring past the both of them at the cusp of a small intersection of alleyways. She stood in silent vigil, her head inclined forward like a dove inspecting its nest.

"Yuen, Chu…"

A soft swishing, two gentle thuds, and Fleur saw that both Yuen and Chu had fallen behind her, ragdoll-like, upon the ground. Their eyes were closed, and their hands were wrung together and entwined.

A boy no taller than her elbow was leaning against the wall. He gestured at her, smiling with a red kite in his thin fingers. A pouch of herbs slung around his neck, secured with string.

"Come in, Lady Ghost. Your friends are unharmed. Come party?" the child babbled, skipping off, his footfalls clattering sharply into her ears.

"W-where?" she asked. The equivalent reaction of a mortal would be that of a heart skipping a beat. Fleur had perused the ghostly realm for fifty years, only ascending to the habitat of the living a few days ago. And yet, she remained unacquainted with the subliminal interactions between ghosts and humans. She had scared Yuen nearly half to death on her first try.

But here was this child, so beguiling, and...so familiar.

"Come with me, Fleur!" cried the little boy, springing down the alleyway like a possessed little deer. He slipped into a dark corner behind a cart of rotting vegetables, whose smell nearly robbed her of consciousness, and disappeared. Fleur blinked, trying to peer around the cart of vegetables. She mustered up her courage to tread into the shadows, and pressed her slender body to the wall, inching between the cart and the wall, till a grey smokiness consumed her and the sounds from the realm above were extinguished.

"Hullo?" she inquired at the shadows, wishing they would retreat with the glow of a bright lamp.

"Hullo?"

Her voice echoed, but its extent was unusually muted. The smoke issuing from an unseen vent at the end of the tunnel was so dense that sound held no power over it. Sound was oppressed, and then made to succumb. Still, Fleur pushed on ahead, an image of her lover flashing across her mind. _Chan Chen Pang, where are you? _

She shuddered in the cold. All of a sudden, the haze cleared, as if by command. She cocked her head in the dark, and flinched violently. A booming voice filled her surroundings, its vibrations pillaging her form like a vicious wind marauding a kite. Fleur thought of the boy, who had appeared and gone so very mysteriously, and murmured a prayer to the heavens.

"Fleur of the Dead, you've come back!"

This suffused her with dread.

"But I don't want to go back! I need to find Twelfth Young Master, Chan Chen Pang! Please!" she blabbered.

There was a pause. Fleur shrank back to a wall of stone, hugging herself in misery.

"You need to pass a test of love, first. Fifty years, you and he have been separated-"

"Well, how do you know? May I ask who're...who're you?"

"Shut up, Old Daft Eagle! Don't you scare newcomers, especially such a pretty one like this. Now I wonder: where is Chen Pang?" a voice sarcastically thundered from somewhere above her.

Fleur, weak with fear, managed to comprehend what the new voice had exclaimed, and, bracing herself, she raised her voice shakily,"You appear to know him, gods of the Afterworld! Know you where he may be?"

The God With The Sarcastic Laugh chortled unconvincingly. "No."

"Young lady," Old Daft Eagle droned sonorously, "Your seven days are nearly up. Why don't you come back to the Afterworld to search for him instead - whoever he is."

"I know he's in the human world! The fortune-teller-" she pleaded, and then stopped, for blood rushed crazily through her head. She was beginning to feel dizzy.

"Is he in the human realm, or is he a ghost like all of us?" Old Daft Eagle asked, as if it were a question of utmost importance. "Think carefully."

With that, the scene before her dissolved, and a hall with rusty pillars and torn, red banners solidified before her eyes. The air temperature began to climb rapidly, bringing a flush to her cheeks. Sounds of merriment reached her ears as approximately thirty ghosts appeared, seated flamboyantly upon wooden rickety chairs, chatting and joking rowdily, clinking goblets of grey, dusty wine together. There were no tables, only chairs and people who did not exist, behaving as if they were a community of bosom friends.

"Oh!" Fleur cried, desperation seizing her head.

Every single ghost turned around to appraise her, in that highly delicate and uppity fashion of hundred-year-old ghosts. A few sniffed at the air, and bent the other way to whisper with their comrades.

"Do you know where Twelfth Young Master is? He was formerly called Chan Chen Pang, and he has been missing for fifty years in the Afterworld."

A small whispering broke out, and quickly affected the entire hall with rustlings of gossip and grievances.

"We made a suicide pact together. A man needs to honour his promise. I beg you, please tell me where he is!"

Her voice quelled the ghosts. They stared disconcertedly at one another, communicating at an avenue seemingly beyond spoken words. The air seemed to draw breath like a lungfish: engorging and relaxing, engorging and relaxing, like the ghosts who sat, disturbed, contemplating her offer. Then proceeded a silence that incited the utmost discomfiture among the ghosts.

"We can bring you to him," said one at last. He was seated nearest to Fleur, and a doleful voice he possessed. Upon drawing closer, Fleur realised that he was very handsome indeed.

All of them were, in fact. Chiseled faces held ripened features of gold, silver and bronze - every trademark of a rich man's son bestowed on their noble countenances. They had once all been successful, young men. Yet the air was melancholic with the lack of life, and all things, including the wind from the human world at the end of the tunnel, met to a dead end in this hall, extinguished of any vitality. The only reason Fleur had not met death here was because she was one of them.

"He is resting now. We ghosts banded together under him, when we discovered we all had common histories, and had lost lovers as unjustified sins. We are all lovelorn men."

There was a thick silence.

"But you must go to him," continued the male ghost. He stood up in a most dignified manner, dusting his robes, and marched towards her.

Fleur glanced slowly up, taking in every inch of the disheveled form, save for his pearly white face that was rounded with youth. Tears sprung up in her eyes, trembling at the edge of her black eyeliner. The glinting wetness was more visceral on a ghost's skin than on any human's, and the male ghost faltered at their sight.

"Fleur!"

She shot around to look. Such a lovely voice there ever was to grace her ears!

There, framed against a cavernous entrance at the other side of the hall, flanked by tall, sweeping ornaments and decked with numerous operatic instruments - a result of the owner's passionate collection - was Chan Chen Pang. He was a ghost now, but his eyes shone with love and gladness. He had not met the sun for very long, and so his skin was pale, but looked strong.

"Chen Pang!" her composure evaporated. She broke into a guileless run, springing forth like an antelope.

"Fleur!" came his equally animalistic cry. In that instant, the repressed, historical wrath of Chen Pang clashed violently against that of the once influential and wealthy Chen family, as much renowned for their pharmaceutical products as they were for producing impetuous heirs. He seemingly cast off the shadow of his patriarch's menace in that singular death run towards his lover, his face scorching the grey and the dust, his artless charm dispersing the gloom and doom. The thirty ghosts broke into thunderous applause.

In the middle, both of them met face to face with tender eyes and gentle grasps.

"You've been away for so long," whispered Chen Pang, fighting the tragic look that threatened to seep into his eyes at any moment.

"So have you," she replied, drinking in his gaze with deep devotion, "I searched for you for fifty years! You're a ghost! Why weren't you in the Afterworld?"

"Oh," he huffed, and his face became besmirched with grief, "I was. But my father stopped me. I was locked up-"

"Oh! Chen Pang," grieved the she-ghost, wiping the tears from his cheeks. It was an operatic mourning - a loyal turtledove pining at a mate's suffering.

"He'd died from a stroke that night, and upon reincarnating into a ghost, he restrained me," explained Chen Pang, mopping Fleur's eyes tenderly too,"I was charged for filial unpiety, and was forced to serve a goddess as a manservant for fifty years. I escaped to the human world to avoid being caught again...I just came here seven days ago."

"But I could have still found you! She prevented you-?"

"Indeed. Her castle was enchanted with an inescapable curse."

Fleur threw herself upon his shoulder and wept openly.

"I thought you had forgotten!" sobbed she. It sounded unremittingly spiteful in her ears, and twanged at the air like a bowstring upon releasing a large, bludgeoning arrow, only to fall with a softened stroke on his ears. Chen Pang patted her back, begging her to stifle her sobs, for there was company about them, who were currently airing their praises with unwillful farts and moaning voices.

"I…I was afraid you'd forgotten too, my Fleur."

Fleur looked up painstakingly into his eyes, alighting on every graceful lineament, every fragrant smell, every blessed tear, savouring every feature of that long-lost, comforting presence beside her. Similarly, Chen Pang looked upon her with such adoration and happiness that the place began to feel livelier. How beautiful she looked.

Finally, both ghosts leaned in to kiss the other.

The hall erupted into cheers and sighs and moans, and many clinks were heard as goblets of wine gnashed against one another. A chime of well wishes rained down upon the two, albeit slightly grudgingly, as hordes of Chen Pang's thirty comrades shoved up to them, proclaiming in loud voices touching observations about the beauty of the two lovers.

"I could write an essay," wept Old Daft Eagle on the subject, dabbing away at his wrinkled eyes.

"Pooh! I could do better justice to ol' Pang!" rebutted Sarcastic Little Bugger.

"Then sing a praise, fool!"

Several ghosts rounded up on him, their bright eyes bulging with ghost's red wine and their long coats flapping in imaginary wind.

"Very well," the ghost replied, "Here it is:

_Sweet moon, former whore _

_Like a frangipani weeping in the wind_

_But sad lord, captured sparrow_

_Broken wings do not sing a mite_

_For fifty fruitless 'frumpity' years, searching_

_Enduring time spent in misery_

_As the flower wilted, and_

_The servant wrung his hands in grief_

_But Love has now found its resplendent equal_

_Blazing with the might of seven oxen_

_His browned, burnt back straightens ; her dry, bled lips moisten_

_How sweet union is - if only a fulfilled promise!_

No offence meant at all, my dear brother Chan Chen Pang."

As he orated those verses, ghosts slowly turned around with gradually dawning light on their pale faces. The pair of lovers swiveled around too, wrapped in the other's embrace.

"And for your fidelity, I hope - and may Heaven grant it too - that all of you and your lovers may be reunited once again!" Chen Pang announced, his gaze sweeping gladly about the cavern.

There was no crack of thunder or bolt of lightning, but the atmosphere was considerably less chilly than before as thirty ghosts joined in the toast to raise their voices to _that bastard heaven who had consigned them all cruel fates_. Alas for them, but Fate was selective.

Fleur clung to him, smiling like a beacon in the night. "I wish to go away with you, Chen Pang, be reborn into the human world, and marry you properly," she whispered, her breath tickling his neck. He inched closer, smiling surreptitiously. His forehead came to touch hers in that infallible gesture of all gently impassioned beings, whether they be ghosts or humans.

"Of course."

The lovely pair each raised a hand in farewell, igniting a more frenzied round of applause, before they vanished into the night, a swirl of dust and broken china demarcating their transient exit.

* * *

"Mr Yuen, Ms Chu!"

Chen Pang frowned as he felt Fleur leave his side and skid towards a couple dozing on the cold, rough ground. Fleur bent down swiftly and started tugging at the woman, calling "Chu _Gu Niang_, Chu _Gu Niang_". She turned the woman over and felt her forehead. Chen Pang caught up with her and was about to sprout a question, when he was silenced in great earnestness by Fleur, who whipped around breathlessly and issued her first command as a wife-to-be: "Help me wake them up! They've been enchanted by one of your ghosts. These humans helped me search for you!"

Chastened by the immediacy of the unromantic task, yet still dwelling in an ephemeral ecstasy of his own, Chen Pang kneeled into the dirt, and pressed his cold hands on the man's shoulders. Immediately, the reporter woke up, his eyes striking the night sky with alarm. His chest started rising and falling with greater alacrity. When he saw the ghost Chen Pang decked in black, silver robes, smart-looking cuffs and a crest of gelled-down hair, he let out a yelp.

"Mr Yuen!" Fleur cried out, and took his hands mutely in her tiny ones. That calmed down the unnerved reporter.

"Now, her," she said, beckoning at the woman at her feet. She was gently breathing against the pavement. Yuen gawked at the both of them.

"Okay."

Chu woke up far more gracefully, blinking sleepily like an owl returning for a nap on its customary branch. She was about to slip right back into oblivion when Chen Pang caught her again, this time by the shoulders. Fleur threw a look at Chen Pang, which then dissolved into one of gentle forbearance. Chen Pang relaxed.

"All right, Ms Chu?" he enquired, staring out of the hollows of his eyes.

To her credit, Chu did not start, but instead gazed, in a mesmerised fashion, at his face hovering inches above hers. Then she caught herself, gave a yap of delight and enveloped Fleur in a crushing hug.

"You found him!"

"I assume you are Twelfth Young Master?" Yuen asked, smiling cheerfully across from his elated girlfriend. There was gladness in his voice, which seemed to Chen Pang a warm, stable baritone.

"Yes...good Sir. Thank you for taking care of Fleur. Fate had delivered her right into your hands, and then into mine!" The two men broke into smiles, and they clasped each other's hands in gratitude and necessity.

Presently, the four of them burst out chuckling in sheer relief and exhaustion. There was an unaltered breeze flowing from the wider streets of the town into the narrow junction they were sandwiched in, but they did not feel threatened anymore. As they got up, the mortals proclaimed that their joints were stiff and cold and blue. The ghosts smiled at this remark, and quickly returned to caressing one another, murmuring sweet nothings like tittering birds in summer's regal procession and humming songs that Yuen and Chu did not recognise. It was a cool, windy night, causing the women to start to shiver. Yuen and Chu, being the hospitable, cosmopolitan couple that they were, invited the ghosts back to their apartment to stay for the night. They happily agreed.

When Yuen and Chu awoke next dawn, they were gone, but Fleur had left a letter thanking them in the most ardent and poetic ways possible. Yuen read the letter aloud. Beside the piece of paper, a velvet pouch lounged, sunning its flanks under the rays of sunlight that filtered through the window blinds. Chu, with tears in her eyes, picked it up tenderly and shakily loosened the drawstring.

"A gold bar!"

Yuen smiled knowingly, and patiently explained the story behind this gesture to his feisty partner.

Meanwhile, Chen Pang and Fleur had spent their night wisely: they had gathered the thirty ghosts and returned triumphantly to the Afterworld. There, a marriage ceremony was held, for they had decided not to wait for rebirth into the human world, for fear of losing each other again. With the blessing of Chen Pang's father, who as a ghost had dementia, they died in each other's arms, susurrating poetry to one another. They were then reborn as Leslie Cheung and Anita Mui accordingly.


End file.
